


Case 420

by whokilledholofernes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack and Smut, Frottage, M/M, Sexual Content, a bit of angst, alcohol use, boys night in, mention of previous drug use, use of marijuana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 04:05:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7298893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whokilledholofernes/pseuds/whokilledholofernes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Have you ever smoked pot?”</p>
<p> “What?”</p>
<p>“Pot, John. Marijuana, weed, ganja, a Mary Jane, a fatty, 420, you know pot.”</p>
<p>John stared at him for a moment while Sherlock looked back, expectantly.</p>
<p>“Ah-- well, I’m a man in his 40’s, what do you think?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Case 420

It was afternoon and John was trying to get a pea on to his fork without using his fingers. That was harder than it seemed since the bowl was deep and there was only one pea left. Sherlock was sitting at the desk and was tapping away on his laptop and wasn’t talking. He only moved once every two minutes when he flung out an arm and carelessly groped for his own bowl of fried rice.

It was calm and quiet, and it was John’s only day off work this week. Sherlock had texted him around 11:07 with an eloquent,

_At 221. Bring food._

A couple of seconds later he had gotten an additional text:

_You’re free today. Come now._

John sighed. He had longed all week for this day off. He’d had grand plans of doing nothing: sleep until noon, eat breakfast in bed and finish the book that he’s been working on the last month or so. Guilt was the reason he wasn’t doing exactly that right now. During the last week John had done his best not thinking about Sherlock, and the fact that he hadn’t seen him in 22 days. It was a harsh reality that stung; they were drifting apart.

Now he was seriously reconsidering his guilt as he popped the pea into his mouth and glared at Sherlock. The man had yet to explained why he’d texted, even though John had asked about twelve times, and John was feeling increasingly annoyed that he was not in his bed right now with a coffee and a box of ‘After Eight’. Sherlock hadn’t exactly been eager to keep in touch either; in fact, he had only replied to two out of four texts John had sent.

John sighed again for good measure. Loudly.

“What?” Sherlock muttered.

“Are you going to tell me why I’m here?”

“I already did.”

John raised one eyebrow. “Out loud?”

Sherlock turned to look at John and pursed his lips. He was wearing a full suit set. It was a nice suit, a new one. It was deep blue and slim collared; perhaps bought with money from a private case, John wouldn’t know. He thought he looked every bit the sharp-eyed sociopathic detective he was made out to be in the papers.

A second later that image shattered.

“Have you ever smoked pot?”

John blinked. “What?”

“Pot, John. Marijuana, weed, ganja, a Mary Jane, a fatty, 420--you know. Pot.”

John stared at him for a moment while Sherlock looked back expectantly.

“Ah-- well, I’m a man in his 40s; what do you think?”

Sherlock grinned.

*****

“It’s been years, it’s not like I’m an expert.”

“I only need one experience.” Sherlock had gone back to typing furiously.

“My girlfriend at the time had some friends who kind of paid her for medical help with--anyways, why do you need to know if I’ve smoked pot?”

“Because I want to try it, and I would prefer company. Since you’re not passionately against it--”

“Hold on.” John interrupted, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair. “You want to smoke weed, with me?”

“Yes.”

“As in, we both get stoned?”

“Well yes, that’s the desired outcome.”

“And you think I would allow that? You’re a former addict Sherlock. And I’m a doctor for god's sake!"

“I wasn’t an addict. I was never addicted,” Sherlock sneered, as if the mere thought was ridiculous. He rose from his chair and passed John heading towards the kitchen. “And if I could kick heroin I think I’d be able to handle weed.”

“Was that a joke? Because that’s like the least funny joke ever.”

“Oh, come of it John.” Sherlock groaned from behind him, “It’s not like I’m going to make it a habit.”

John rolled his eyes in exasperation, but since Sherlock was in the kitchen, the only one present for the insult was the skull on the mantelpiece. It stared back at him, unimpressed.

“And why do you want to smoke pot, again?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead, he opened the fridge and John could hear the unmistakable clirr of glass bottles. He turned around it time for Sherlock to hand him a beer.

“Cheers,” Sherlock said, popping own open with a lighter.

John stared at him. “It’s 12:30!”

“So?”

“So, it’s weird! And you don’t drink!”

At that Sherlock took a big swig of his beer.

John started to grin. This was ridiculous. “Who are you and what have you done to my friend?”

Sherlock frowned. “What do you--”

John waved the question away and took a look at the bottle in his hand. Augustiner lager, one of his favorites. Almost touched, but definitely still apprehensive, he opened it and took a sip. It was good, ice cold and acidic. It hit home even though it was only 12:30.

He cleared his throat. “So again, why are we drinking, and what’s up with you being all hippie-dippie?”

“Because I thought you’d be easier to persuade if we were drinking: more social, less analytical.”

“So it’s an experiment?” John took another swig.

“I didn’t say that.”

John covered his eyes with with his free hand. “Then can you please explain what the fuck we are doing.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, probably judging how much information to actually give away. He was pretty, for a man, John thought. Handsome didn't really cover it, but pretty somehow did.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Let’s just say I have experience with recreational drugs, but not marijuana.”

John snorted. “What are you saying? That you’ve done any other drug on this planet and you want to fill out the blank space?”

“Basically. Yes.”

John's jaw dropped once again. “You’re an idiot.”

“What?!” Sherlock cried. “That’s a totally legitimate reason!”

“Angel dust?” John groaned.

“Wh--”

“Have you tried angel dust?”

“Well, that wasn’t the best experience and maybe not the wisest decision. But yes I have.”

John slumped in his chair. “Oh my god, I’m going to buy your brother dinner for resisting the urge to strangle you all these years.”

“So you’ll do it?”

John groaned again. “Yeah sure.”

*****

“Ok, first--do we have the pot already?”

Sherlock magically summoned a stuffed baggie from nowhere and tossed it over to John, who caught it. It was about 5 grams, he reckoned.

John chuckled. “Right, not smoking all of this tonight.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked sullenly.

“Because you’ll be pissing in your sock drawer if we smoke it all, idiot.”

Sherlock looked like he wanted to protest, but to John's surprise the bastard kept his mouth shut. John’s lips curled. “Secondly, where did you get it and is it safe?”

“From one of my homeless resources. It’s clean--or at least not poisoned or compromised.”

“Ok, good,” John said. Actually, this might not be all that bad. They were spending time together and it was easier then it’d been for several months. He took a last swig of the beer and popped the empty bottle on the floor. Only seconds later Sherlock handed him a second.

“Hey, are we crossfading? You know, blending alcohol with--”

“I know what crossfade is, John,” Sherlock said with such an implied “duh” that John had to smile. It was only a couple of hours ago that the same man in the smart suit had asked John, quite seriously, if he’d ever roofied anyone.

“And I’ve blended alcohol with most other drugs. I’m not concerned,” Sherlock sniffed.

“Ah right.” John glanced up at him for a second and then looked down, pretending to examine the little pharmacy label on the bag. There was so much they never talked about; so much that could potentially hurt them. “Do you still have the rizla papers?”

“No need. I bought the long ones.”

“Oh my god.” John shook his head, his smile growing. “When did this idea even pop into your head? I mean, you actually went to a store and bought long papers?”

At that, Sherlock actually smiled. “Who likes to be predictable?”

*****

“Why can’t we just get take away?”

Sherlock was sulking. He did not want to go out to the store, but John had insisted; they were not flatmates anymore and John would rather choke than buy Sherlock Holmes’ groceries.

“Because you have nothing but mould and beer in the fridge, and--and because I already ate that fried rice today and my metabolism isn’t magical like yours.”

“Then why eat at all? I won’t be hungry anyway.”

“Well, I don’t know about you but I will most definitely get the munchies.”

“Is that when people get hungry after they smoke weed?”

“Right on.”

From the corner of his vision John could see Sherlock roll his eyes.

“I bet 5 quid that you’ll be all over that omelette later,” John sniffed.

“Omelette isn’t healthy.”

“Sod off, it’s protein.”

As they entered the store John had an idea. “Didn’t you say Mrs. Hudson used to smoke?”

“Yes, and she was a stripper, and she packed heroine for a while as well. I think she laundered money through Speedy’s but I can’t be sure unless--”

“Right,” John interrupted, feeling a bit queasy about the new information. “We could ask her to join us?”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. “Why would anyone suggest such a heinous and frankly grotesque idea?”

“It was just a thought. You know she would cook for us. She could make that thing with the beetroots and parmesan,” John muttered.

“I'd rather cook for you myself then endure a high Mrs. Hudson.”

“You would?”

“Hold on,” Sherlock said cautiously “I’m not saying--”

“Can you even cook?”

“Of course I can. You know I lived alone before you came along and started fuzzing.”

“I never seen you cook anything but scrambled eggs. I might need proof,” John grinned.

“You are an idiot John Watson.”

Something deep inside of him jumped at the softness in Sherlock’s voice. Something small and restrained. John didn’t consider himself to be macho, but feelings didn’t come easy to him; even less so expressing those feelings. So he kept them well down and hidden to peek at some nights when he was alone and half asleep. Sometimes he wished he would be able to say something: to tell Sherlock how much this means to him. These days together. And that he was sorry.

They chose to buy eggs, red onions, and tomatoes (or John chose; Sherlock was fully engrossed in examining the labels of some mac & cheese packages).

John also decided to buy a bag of crisps. Just in case.

They walked home in silence. Sherlock was texting and John was lost in his thoughts. Their steps were even since Sherlock had slowed down to more easily compose his texts. John was thinking about Mary: where she might be, what she might be doing. Did she still have the same haircut? Was she with someone else? Did she ever think of him? He was also thinking about his life with Sherlock, the one before Moriarty split them apart for two years. Had it really been necessary, all that time? Had it been necessary to be separated?

He didn’t notice that Sherlock was looking at him until he startled John by talking. “Stop thinking about it.”

John quickly looked up at him and smiled, “I know, it just...pops up sometimes.”

Sherlock seemed to hesitate. “We are better now, right? Than before?”

“If you mean before your-- I don’t know. But definitely better than a year ago.”

Another hesitant silence. “I think we’re better now, than before my… fall.”

John looked up at him, his heart filling with melancholia and joy. “Yeah, I guess.” He hesitated, it was now or never. “I should… come over more often, sorry.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, looking down at the pavement. “If you’d like.”

John looked down as well and kicked an empty pack of cigarettes lying in front of his feet.

“Let’s go home and smoke some weed.”

John laughed, relieved, and Sherlock grinned. They walked the rest of the way back in silence.

*****

“How did the case you had last week work out?”

“Boring. The ex husband killed her.”

“Pity,” John said with irony.

“Hmm, yes,” Sherlock mumbled. “God damn it! It keeps breaking!”

“Give it to me.” John reached for the miserable-looking joint Sherlock was holding between his fingers.

“No.”

John giggled. He was on his fourth beer and things were looking great. It was only four o'clock and John felt like he was back in the military, where they used to get shit-faced before dinner and play blackjack over candy bars and cigarettes. It was nice. They should do this again soon. Well, maybe not the pot, but hanging out like this. With no case to keep them busy and no failing marriage to keep John miserable.

“We could make brownies,” John mused.

“What about your metabolism?”

John giggled again. “Yeah, forgot about that.”

“Aha! No need,” Sherlock exclaimed, holding up a fairly straight-looking joint.

“Did you even blend it with tobacco?”

Sherlock’s face fell. “Don’t make me do it again.”

“Oh fine, we’ll just go slow. Well, light it up sailor.” John clapped his hands together and went to get a cup from the kitchen to use as an ash tray.

They sat down on the sofa. Sherlock put his feet up on the coffee table and lit the joint. He took a fairly deep drag before John had time to stop him. He coughed, looked at the small white roll angrily, and then took another drag.

“Puff, puff, pass,” John said sullenly.

Sherlock handed it over and John took a quick drag: a sip, a very, very small puff. And then he went into an epic coughing fit that left him red-faced and gasping. Sherlock snickered. “I thought I was inexperienced.”

“Sod...off,” John croaked between coughs.

They sat quietly for a couple of rounds before John burst out laughing. “Do you remember my bachelors party?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said after a few moments. “That was unfortunate.”

“Yeah, but kind of fun before you puked all over that poor girl’s carpet.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth curled upwards. “We could play that stupid game again.”

“Oh no, we could not. You didn’t even get it.”

“I got it, I just didn’t care,” Sherlock sulked.

“Maybe you can let me be better than you at just one thing?”

“You are better than me at a lot of things. I have no trouble admitting that,” Sherlock exclaimed. “You are a better people person, you’re a better drunk, you’re better at bills and boring forms, you are better at remembering inane stuff like buying juice or milk, you make better jokes, you’re nicer, funnier, and braver.” He took sip of his beer and looked away.

John, a bit flabbergasted, stared at Sherlock’s profile. “Well, thanks Sherlock. Really. Cheers.”

He clinked his beer against Sherlock’s almost empty one. “I’ll get you another one,” he said as he stood up.

From behind he heard Sherlock mutter something.

“What’s that?”

“I’m smarter.”

John laughed. “Yes you are, love.”

John froze.

Love?

He’d called Mary love.

Well, that’s fucking embarrassing.

He was glad he was standing with his back towards Sherlock so that his friend couldn’t see his face. He got two beers out of the fridge, drowned the last of his own, and headed back, suddenly determined to get both of them shit-faced and stoned. And that, John thought briefly, might be a very bad decision indeed.

*****

They were almost finished with the joint, and John had a nice buzz going on. He was slumped down in the sofa and he was having a monologue about how chipmunks communicated with each other.

“You know…we can like, understand what they're talking about from the noises they make...and if one of them sees a human they’re like ‘guys it’s a human over there with a red jacket... And we know that.”

He looked over at Sherlock, who was staring at him with narrowed eyes. “You seem much higher than me.”

“It’ll hit you soon enough,” John giggled. “I’m really looking forward to seeing you stoned.”

Sherlock sighed.

“Do you want to see a trick I learned in the--ah, in the ah--military?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

John picked up his bottle. He put it to his mouth together with his index finger, and, tipping his head, swallowed the rest of his almost-full beer in one go.

The next moment he found himself watching as Sherlock did the exact same thing.

“Whoa!” John said, genuinely impressed. “Didn’t know you could deep throat.”

Sherlock looked at him with raised eyebrows, and John felt his ears turn red. Shit, too late to erase that. They sat in silence again until John thought it was time he got a grip and stopped acting like an embarrassed teenager. “What did you do, like, before you started…detecting?”

Sherlock made a face: half a smile, half a grimace. “A bit of everything. I was solving crimes of course, but mostly cold ones from decades ago. Not enough thrill in that. I worked at a lab for a while between 21 and 25 and in a bar between 30 and 33.”

“A bar?” John asked, surprised.

Sherlock looked away from John. “Easy access.”

John’s heart fell. “Right.” He hesitated. “Em…why did you stop?”

“Mainly because they made me,” Sherlock said, looking back at John. He looked a bit relieved that John hadn’t lectured him. John felt that it really wasn’t the time for that, what with the whole living room foggy and smelling like funk.

“The yard?”

“Yes, and Mycroft.”

“Do you think you’d still be doing it if they hadn’t made you?”

“Yes. But I’m kind of glad they did,” Sherlock said. He fixed John with a fierce look. “But if you ever tell them what I just said, I’ll have you murdered John Watson.”

A shiver went through John’s body, and it wasn’t fear. “Mycroft wouldn’t help you.”

“I know people,” Sherlock smirked. The smirk faded as his eyes turned glassy. “I think it just hit me.”

*****

“Let’s watch it one more time,” John said, breathless from laughter.

“Nooo,” Sherlock groaned.

“Oh come on!”

“Alright, just one more time.”

John clicked on the replay button and watched the cat walk across the yard towards the pool and then dive into it. He giggled happily.

“My turn,” Sherlock said. He shoved John away from the laptop. “Check this out.” He typed ‘sloth crosses road’, and clicked on the first video.

“I’ve seen this already.”

“You’ve seen all of them.” Sherlock muttered.

“The beauty of unemployment, Sherlock. I had a lot of time for YouTube.” John smiled.

“Let’s roll another one.”

John considered it. He already felt kind of loose. But hell with it. “Just make it with tobacco this time.”

“Ah…is that an order?” Sherlock stumbled a bit as he headed towards the coffee table, where they'd left the bag and the papers earlier.

“That’s an order, Private Holmes,” John giggled. He stood unsteadily and made his way to the kitchen, where he filled a glass of water. He drank it all in three gulps and then refilled. Thinking He thought about starting the omelette already but decided it could wait another hour, he opened the bag of crisps instead, and shoved a handful into his mouth. Back in the living room he held up the refilled water glass towards the other man. Sherlock was standing in the exact same spot John had left him, regarding him with an odd expression.

“What?” John asked sheepishly, lowering the glass.

“You ah…we-” Sherlock faltered, he made a vague gesture towards the couch, “-we should sit down.”

*****

The second joint was lighter, but John was already baked. The living room at 221B looked like a familiar stranger. The furniture had grown softer angles. He never noticed how tall the lamp in the corner was. Weird. His feet felt funny and his mouth was dry as a desert.

Sherlock wasn’t in any better shape; he was also slumped down in the sofa, examining his palms with his magnifying glass. “Should weed make your hands look weird?”

John looked down at his own hands. “...Yes.” He said after some consideration.

“Oh...”

“Right, I think we've had enough.” John reached for the cup to kill the spliff.

“Wait… give it to me.” Sherlock reached out a hand.

“Alright, but… easy.” He gave Sherlock the small stump that was left, and the man immediately started examining it with the magnifier.

They made hard boiled eggs instead of omelettes since John insisted on Sherlock making the food and Sherlock insisted that he would rather die. There were cigarette butts on the table. John didn’t recall either of them smoking.

John slumped back once again and closed his eyes. The world was spinning from either the alcohol or the weed, or both. He was feeling slightly nauseated. He was thinking about asking Sherlock if he could stay the night when he felt his friend shift on the sofa, and then suddenly--

Intense. Pain.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?” John shouted, and Sherlock threw his whole body backwards and fell over the armrest.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry! Impulse,” Sherlock said as he got up on his feet, shielding his body from John with a cushion.

John twisted his arm, getting a glimpse of a ashy red mark, “You fucking _BURNED ME_!”

“Sorry,” Sherlock said again.

“Oh. My. God. You are impossible, did you know that Sherlock? I can’t believe I lived with you for two years!” John groaned.

And then he went quiet. The air thickened.

Sherlock looked down, and John thought he could see the man’s shoulder slumping.

“Sorry,” John murmured.

Sherlock's expression was pained. “No. You’re right.”

“No, I overreacted. I think it’s the booze. Sorry.”

“I know I was hard to live with,” Sherlock said. The light was falling over his face in a way that made his cheeks look almost hollow, and his eyes black. After a moment's silence, Sherlock took a breath. “Is that why you didn’t come back?”

John suddenly felt guilt ripping through him. He’d been preparing for this conversation for months now. This didn’t feel like the right time, but too late.

“No it wasn’t.”

Sherlock nodded. “You don’t have to explain.”

“It...just...seemed too hard.” John’s heart was racing now.

“I know.” A whisper, almost to quiet for John to hear.

“I was wrong.”

Sherlock looked up at him, his face was shadows and light. “Come back, John.” And he made the smallest gesture with his hand, reaching towards him. _We’ll try again._

John’s whole body was vibrating. This isn’t it, he thought. You are projecting, he is not asking you. He needs your friendship, not your--

Sherlock took two steps over the coffee table and stopped just a foot away from him. His eyes were wide, roaming over John's face. John’s heart was beating so hard he thought his chest might explode.

“Tell me now if I’m wrong.” Sherlock whispered.

And then John kissed him.

*****

Sherlock’s mouth was on his, and his mouth was on Sherlock’s, and the only thing John could think was Oh my god, oh my jesus fucking christ, he’s kissing me. It was soft and dry and real. It was intense and earth-shattering and oh so quiet.

After years of never allowing himself to think about, and years of pretending it was just curious ideation that didn’t mean anything, he was finally kissing him. Sherlock’s body was tense, but his lips were soft. John carefully put his hands on Sherlock’s upper arms and it immediately sent shivers down his body. How can you live with someone as closely as they had and barely ever touch? It was electric, that small contact. The heat of him. John had never experienced anything like it.

John realized a moment later that they had stopped kissing, and he opened his eyes. Sherlock's face was just inches away, too close for John’s eyes to focus, but he could feel the man watching him.

“Ok?” Sherlock whispered, and his breath hit John's cheek like a thunderstorm.

“Yes,” John whispered, and kissed him again. John worked Sherlock’s mouth open and reveled in the slick heat of tongues. It was odd in it's familiarity. That heat, that wet caress of tongues. Teeth clicking against each other. It was so human.

Suddenly John felt a flicker of panic; was this allowed to happen? With anyone else he wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but this. This seemed somehow frail and sacred. Was he allowed to touch this man? Was he allowed to come this close? This situation, this _thing_ , was exactly what he’d been avoiding these last months. It was truely irrational and could probably only end badly.

\--Then Sherlock made a small noise in the back of his throat that went like electricity down John's spine, pooling in his stomach and making anything else than _this_ seem unimportant. Sherlock hands were up in his hair, and oh my god, his mouth opened further. John slid his hands down Sherlock’s arms and up again, then placed them on the other man's waist. Sherlock shivered and breathed hotly into John’s mouth. John kissed his jaw, his earlobe and down his neck. His hands were on his chest and in his hair and on his hips. Sherlock was breathing hard. Then his hands were suddenly on John’s shoulders and he was gently being pushed away.

John looked up at Sherlock, who was pink-cheeked and unruly-haired as ever. He was looking at John with dark eyes and John had to swallow to keep from kissing him again.

“What do you want, John?” Sherlock murmured.

John opened his mouth, but closed it again. It seemed so obvious what John wanted? What he’d always wanted! At the same time it felt impossible to put words on it. Everything, he wanted to say--but what did 'everything' mean? What if Sherlock pulled away? What if he he saw John's eyes and everything John could no longer hide, and he pulled away? What if Sherlock wasn’t feeling it--this thing that was currently ripping through every bone and muscle and nerve ending in John’s body?

“I want this.” He hesitated. “It doesn’t have to be more than this, if you don’t wa--”

Instantly, Sherlock’s mouth closed on his and he grabbed John’s arms, hard. Relief was instant, John felt his body take over and his mind let go; it floated away and the only thing left was the need to touch the man in his arms. This man who he never really touched; who was warm, and soft, and angular and  _real_.

Sherlock pushed him backwards without ever stopping the kiss. John could feel the edge of the sofa against the back of his knees. Sherlock broke contact only to shove John down and straddle his lap.

John’s heart ached at the hesitance in Sherlock's eyes which belied his confidence in this forward move. He stroked Sherlock’s back and nuzzled his neck; he smelled like shampoo and sweat and spices, and before he could think about it John licked a long stripe along his collarbone. Sherlock moaned, his face pressed against the back of the sofa. His hips stuttered forward and suddenly John could feel a his erection pressed against his stomach. Oh god, oh god. Heat spread like electricity through his body and and had to squeeze a hand down under Sherlock’s arse to adjust his own member. Sherlock rocked against him in tiny movements that made John see stars.

They stayed like that, just kissing and moving against each other. John ended up whispering sweet nothings into Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock tried to swallow down those small noises, that sometimes sounded like a plea. When John whispered, in a moment of boldness, “one day, I want you to fuck me, and I want to fuck you.” Sherlock broke away from the kiss, panting, staring at John with black eyes, eyelids drooping like a pornstars. They stayed like that, just kissing and grinding against each other, not daring to go any further. John talk big, but in reality, he’s terrified.

But they had time and John was rapidly losing control as Sherlock’s hips sped up and the moans he tried to control became more desperate and less unrestrained. He grabbed Sherlock’s arse and forced him even closer, lost in his own arousal. Sherlock tried to say something but he was almost incoherent now. His mouth against John’s ear, breathing hot and wet as he pressed himself against John’s stomach and down against John’s cock.

John sneaked a hand between them and pressed it down Sherlock’s stomach. _“Let me touch you.”_ His fingers closed around the intense, damp heat through layers of fabric; Sherlock was rock hard and John closed his eyes at the knowledge, that this was-- this was _him_. Sherlock stiffened and John thought for a panicked second that he’d crossed a line. Then Sherlock groaned, deep and long, his hips stuttered forward and John could feel his cock twitch and swell. His whole body shuddered into climax, and he was making small, rhythmic noises in John’s ear.

Fuck.

That was hot.

John grabbed at Sherlock’s hips and thrust his cock up the cleft of his arse. He rubbed himself against Sherlock like an animal in heat. Moments later, climax hit him like a fucking rocket. Some part of him was aware that he was chanting, words spilled out of him like water, but all he could think about was the intense pleasure, the heat and the thunderstorm.

As John came down from his orgasm, he felt Sherlock's heavy weight against him; he had collapsed over John’s body and was now breathing breathing deeply against his neck. His hands were resting on John’s shoulders and his hair, slick with sweat against John’s cheek.

John stroked Sherlock’s back up and down, feeling every rib, every vertebra, and thought quietly that this couldn’t have been a mistake.

*****

Uncomfortable. This thing he was laying on was very uncomfortable. And something hard and angular was pressing against his legs. His mouth felt sticky and gross, his throat dry. There was sun hitting his face and John saw red light through his closed eyelids. He cracked an eye open and squinted at the scenery around him: bottles of beer on a coffee table, cigarette butts and two sets of plates with egg shells and leftover egg whites. He was lying on the sofa, using the armrest as a pillow. His neck hurt like hell.

A grunt from the other side of the sofa startled John and he sat up slowly. The headache hit him like a small dagger, and he winced and rubbed his temples.

Sherlock was struggling up from under his coat. He looked incredibly sleepy, his eyes barely open, and his left cheek was marked with red lines from the sofa.

“Hey,” John said hoarsely.

“Hey,” Sherlock croaked back.

Sherlock looked him up and down and chuckled. John started laughing too, but they both stopped quickly and groaned, grabbing their heads.

John smiled at him, and then, before he could think, he crawled over and gave Sherlock a quick peck on the mouth.

Sherlock looked at him, stunned, then he smiled hesitantly. John waited.

And.

“You taste like arse.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much fluorescentbluebell and DontAppallMeWhenImHigh for beta help! You are stars.
> 
> Also, if you liked it, please leave a comment or a note and I will love you forever!


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